


Five Things Mycroft Holmes Can Give Up

by Galadriel1010



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mycroft Holmes-centric, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Pre-Relationship, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:08:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26420893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: Five things Mycroft Holmes can give up, and one thing he absolutely won't.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 1
Kudos: 139





	Five Things Mycroft Holmes Can Give Up

**Author's Note:**

> Another oldie from the depths of my Google Drive.

Sleep

He woke with his alarm and started moving automatically. It was still dark outside and would be for hours yet, but international politics operated at all hours and waited for no man, especially not minor government officials. His study was already set up with the files and notes that he needed, so he just pulled his dressing gown on and went to make himself a coffee in the fifteen minutes he'd allowed himself to prepare.

The phone call was completely off-the-record, and he felt a frisson of excitement when the phone finally rang. Weeks of quiet discussions and gentle hints had led him to this - to sitting in his study in the early hours of the morning to talk to an equally minor government official on the other side of the world.

If he could pull this off, it would change his life. There would be more phone calls, more early mornings and late nights, more conversations he shouldn't have and couldn't admit to. He would have to get used to broken sleep, to the cold grey of dawn and the inky black of night.

To have the country at his fingers and the world on a string, it would be worth it.

Drink

It had been a long day, and his conscience weighed heavily. In the privacy of his sitting room, a sanctuary that few others were permitted to see, he dropped his jacket on an armchair and went to contemplate his drinks cabinet.

Crystal decanters glimmered in the soft golden light and tinkled against each other as he ran his fingers along the stoppers. Port was too rich, sherry too sweet. A selection of whiskies offered variety, but none was quite right. A good crisp red would be nice, but he couldn't open a bottle at this time of night. Vodka and gin would be too sharp, and Baileys too smooth.

In the end he ignored them all in favour of a glass of apple juice from the fridge and a Twix. The numbness of alcohol would be welcome, but he didn't need it or even, particularly, crave it. Not that night, at least.

Red Meat

Doctor Brown had given him a list of foodstuffs he should avoid or acquire. He didn't need it, but the aide memoir was a comfort and a chastisement. It had come as no great surprise to be told that he needed to lose weight, and it would require very little rearrangement of his life. He had already changed his regular order with the young man who shopped at the Borough Market, and more fish in his diet would hardly be a hardship. Egg on wholemeal toast for breakfast followed by a pleasant walk through the park and the city to his office was just what the doctor ordered - quite literally.

The rich lasagne, however, was not. It was made with sun-ripened tomatoes, fresh basil, organic mushrooms and onions, full fat guernsey milk, mature Welsh cheddar, the perfect parmesan, home-made pasta slices and, at its heart, organically farmed minced beef. Mycroft was a good cook, as befitted his attention to detail and the pleasure he gained from it, but his lasagne in particular was exquisite. Of course, it could be made with leaner white meats, skimmed milk and low-fat cheeses, but that would have been rather defeating the point.

Instead he resigned himself to his fate and consigned his lasagne to a rare luxury.

Coffee

Regulating his sleep was far easier in winter than in summer. When it was cold and the temperature in the house was easily controlled, and it was dark for more than half the day, it was easy to get to sleep in the limited hours available to him. In the summer, though, when birds sang from the early morning and the sun forced through gaps between the curtains no matter what he did, it seemed like an impossible challenge.

A small change in his habits was, therefore, required. Three boxes of his preferred tea - loose leaf, of course - would replace the tins of coffee in the cupboard above the coffee machine, which he would send to Detective Sergeant Lestrade. The man would surely appreciate it if he continued his association with Sherlock, and he deserved something to compensate for the inevitable trials.

For now, he busied himself with taking the coffee set from the bottom shelf and the tea set from the one above it and adjusting the shelf heights so that the taller coffee pot would fit in its new place. His MCCC mug remained on the counter, next to the kettle. It would serve him just as well for tea as for coffee.

Smoking

The meeting was, at long last, finished. Jacobs collected together his notes as Mycroft did the same, and they held back until their charges had left the room before they exchanged satisfied smiles. Dealing with politicians was a peril of the job, but the outcome was satisfactory this time.

"Nearly had us that time, Holmes," Jacobs said quietly. "Are they getting smarter, or are we getting slow?"

"We were, perhaps, a little complacent in our preparations," he allowed, "but it will do no harm for them to think they have won for once."

Mycroft opened the door and allowed Jacobs to proceed him. The older man had let rather more slide than Mycroft would have, but his skills were still sufficient for Mycroft to consider him a valuable ally.

Jacobs's hand slipped into his pocket and he gestured with the other towards the stairs. "Are you coming outside to pollute the atmosphere with me?"

He could hear the rain hammering on the windows from here. The smoking ban was a pleasant excuse in the simmer, but now seemed more like an inconvenience. This considered, he shook his head. "Maybe in the spring."

Jacobs frowned at him, a barely visible raising of his eyebrows proceeding it. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," he agreed.

"Good God, man."

And the one thing he can’t.

It's the phone call he's dreaded for years. In some small way it's a relief that the shoe has dropped at last, but it is a very small crumb of comfort. Greg, not Detective Inspector Lestrade tonight, calls him from the scene, so Mycroft arrives at the hospital only just after they do, whilst Greg is still looking dumbfounded and angry in the corridor. They find a pair of hard plastic chairs and sit together in silence because there is nothing to say.

Some time later, he loses track, they are found by a doctor, who smiles and nods before he speaks. Sherlock is stable, he will live - this time. Greg's hand is in his and he doesn't know when it happened, but it is a relief to have something to squeeze, someone who will squeeze back with the same force and the same breathless choked-off laugh.

They don't have many people, he and Sherlock, but they have each other. Now they have Greg as well. Mycroft holds on, to Greg and to hope, and he will not let Sherlock go.


End file.
